There was a smack of success in her words.
But as she stitched on in silence, I noticed the sadness in her pleasant eyes and the droop of her mouth.

The look in her eyes became far away.
She rubbed the dimness hastily out of them; it interfered with her stitching.
"No, it is not the hunger that makes the heart ache," she explained.
"You get used to being hungry.

It is for my child that I cry.

It was the machine that killed her.

It is true she worked hard, but I cannot understand.